


Beautiful Disaster

by RobinLeStrange



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith, Strike (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Barrow - Freeform, Book: Career of Evil, F/M, Hotel Sex, Road Trip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:27:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22703941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLeStrange/pseuds/RobinLeStrange
Summary: Robin wakes up in the hotel in Barrow, but she's not in her own room...
Relationships: Robin Ellacott & Cormoran Strike
Comments: 11
Kudos: 50
Collections: Love Letters: A Cormoran Strike Valentine's Day Fest





	Beautiful Disaster

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by Anonymous in the [StrikeLoveLetters](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/StrikeLoveLetters) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
> Beautiful Disaster

Robin rolled over and stretched languorously in the hotel bed. It wasn’t the most comfortable mattress or the plushest hotel, but she felt relaxed and as she awoke, she registered a gentle tingle throughout her body, lingering from the previous night's pleasures. Then she remembered...

_Cormoran_

Then she remembered again.

_“If you sleep with him, we're over for good.”_

Fuck.

She could hear the kettle boiling, the jangle of a teaspoon against china, heavy, uneven footsteps approaching.

“Tea?”

She had no choice but to open her eyes and acknowledge him, cheeks flaming as she wriggled upright desperately clutching the thin duvet to her chest.

_Bit late for that_ , said the reproachful voice in her head.

He smiled at her, his expression inscrutable, placed the small, white mug on the bedside table and silently passed her the shirt she'd been wearing when she’d turned up at his hotel room the previous night.

“I’m going out for a cigarette. Meet you in the breakfast room...half an hour?”

She nodded mutely and watched him leave.

* * *

Outside in the car park, Strike leaned up against the side of the Land Rover and lit up the first of what he suspected would be many, many cigarettes.

_What the actual fuck had he been thinking?_

He should have sent a text...why hadn’t he sent a text for Christ’s sake?! The cliché of him knocking on her door to tell her about Wardle's call hadn’t escaped him even as he was doing it. Even as he was telling himself it was better to see her and make sure she knew of his plans, rather than risk her not seeing a message. He’d seen the hint of a smirk that crossed her face as she opened the door, noticed the way she’d fiddled unnecessarily with her earring. It was clear the thought had occurred to her too.

That should have been it. He'd retreated swiftly back to his room and headed for the shower in the hopes of washing his wayward thoughts out of his imagination. He'd been largely unsuccessful and ended up resorting to a lengthy blast of cold water which he was just stepping out from when he heard a knock on his door.

Assuming it was a member of staff bringing him the extra pillows he'd requested, he slung a towel around his waist, grabbed his crutches and made his way to open the door.   
  
But of course, it wasn’t a member of staff, it was Robin.

* * *

Robin still didn’t know what had possessed her to go to Strike’s room and suggest they discuss their plan of action for the following day's trip to Corby. She could tell herself until she was blue in the face that it was all about being well prepared and doing the job to the best of her ability, but deep down she knew that was bullshit. She just wanted his company, maybe to prolong the tiny frisson between them when he’d knocked on hers.

She hadn’t expected anything to actually happen. If she’d known he would answer the door wearing just a towel, his hair curling darkly at his neck and ears, tiny silver rivulets of water meandering down his broad chest, she’d have run a mile rather than knocking that door.

She’d stammered an apology, told him it wasn’t important, but he’d smiled awkwardly and told her to come in and get the kettle on while he got dressed, scooping his clothes from the bed as he passed and returning to the bathroom.

* * *

Once safely behind the locked door, he’d berated himself sternly. In the split second he’d decided to invite her in, he’d thought it would be less embarrassing all round to normalise the situation rather than have her scuttle back to her room, mortified. He told himself it had nothing to do with the furious blush on her cheeks, or the way her pupils had dilated when she’d seen him in the doorway, half naked.

_Don’t be so fucking ridiculous…you’re a one-legged, overweight old man as far as she’s concerned…the lighting in the corridor’s shit, of course her pupils were dilated…_

A few more harsh words to himself got Strike’s stirring libido under control and he emerged into the bedroom, dressed in a long sleeve t-shirt and sweatpants with the right leg pinned up neatly.

* * *

Robin was sat at the dressing at the dressing table, head buried in a steaming cup of tea, hoping the fragrance would obliterate the smell of Strike’s shower gel that was currently invading her senses and make her think far too much about the text she’d received from Matthew earlier that day.

Strike lowered himself onto the end of the bed and took the proffered mug gratefully.

“So what exactly did Wardle have to say?” Robin asked, keen to distract herself with details of the case.

“It seems that Laing lived with a woman called Lorraine McNaughton for just a short of a year, that was his last confirmed address and she’s still living there so well worth a visit. He’s also sent some images…”

He shuffled across on the bed to make room for Robin so he could show her the photos, and she went willingly, aware that it was much easier for her to move than him.

“Right, well that looks like a really useful…”

Robin’s phone bleeped furiously, interrupting her, and she pulled it from her pocket and looked at with a sigh.

“Matthew?”

“Of course.”

There was a brief silence. Strike knew it was really none of his business, but he couldn’t help being concerned.

“What does he want?”

Robin sighed again and bit her lip, debating whether to answer, how to answer. The third glass of wine she’d consumed at the Red Lion earlier, and the memory of Strike greeting her at the door in just his towel, made her mind up for her.

“He’s just reminding me once again that despite me already breaking off our engagement because of his affair, it will really be over if I sleep with you whilst we’re up here.”

“Ahhh…,” Strike’s stomach flipped at the thought, then he grinned at her, “And did you tell him to shove that thought up his arse?”

Robin didn’t quite manage to meet his eye.

“No,” she said quietly.

His thoughts were racing. Why? Why would she not tell him what an utterly ridiculous notion it was?

“He knows the likelihood of that happening is vanishingly unlikely, right?”

She looked at him this time, and although there was a smirk on her lips, he saw instantly that her eyes were devoid of any humour.

“Once again, morale duly boosted.”

“God, Robin that’s not what I meant…”

She shook her head and got to her feet.

“It’s alright Cormoran, I’ve seen the kind of women you sleep with…”

“The kind of…what?! Why would you even…”

“And I know how people…I know how men see me once they know…I’m damaged goods…” he saw the tears sparkling in her eyes as she reached for the door handle, “I’m going to get my head down, long day tomorrow. We can talk about the case on the way.”

“Robin, stop!” Strike struggled to his feet and managed to gently grab her arm just before she went through the door. He pushed it shut with his left crutch and turned her to face him.

“I do not see you as damaged goods…in any way whatsoever,” his voice tailed off at the last few words. There, he’d admitted it. He did think of her in ‘that way’.

“Then why would the idea of us…you know…be so ridiculous?”

On any other day, in any other situation Strike could have thought of a million and one reasons why the idea was ridiculous in the space of a couple of heartbeats. His age, his disability, his commitment phobia, the fact they worked together, the fact they were friends. But now Robin was millimetres away, gazing up at him with her clear grey-blue eyes, expecting a coherent answer, and suddenly he had nothing. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again, raising his hand to her cheek to brush away the tears that had escaped.

“We can’t, Robin, not like this. I’d be taking advantage of you…”

“What if I was the one taking advantage?” she said softly, her hands trailing from his arms across his chest and down to his waist, pulling him slightly closer, knowing he couldn’t move away quickly or easily on crutches.

“Robin…” his tone was a warning, but his expression was the one she’d seen many times before when she’d talked him into doing something he wasn’t entirely sure about. He wasn’t even attempting to move away, but he wasn’t touching her either and she wanted him to touch her…badly.

She moved fractionally closer, a small, sharp intake of breath letting him know that she was aware of the effect she was having on him, despite his best efforts to keep his errant cock under control. He gritted his teeth and tried to move away but between his disadvantage due to being on crutches and the magnetic pull of Robin’s body pressed up against his, he failed dismally.

“I don’t want to take you to bed just because you’re on the rebound,” he eventually managed to articulate, although it cost him an effort and his voice came out low and hoarse.

Robin’s hands slid around to his back and beneath the hem of his t-shirt and a low growl escaped his lips at the sensation of her cool fingers against his warm skin. She leaned up to press her cheek against his and whisper in his ear.

“So, don’t. Take me to bed because I want you to, Cormoran. Because I need this…”

She pulled away slightly and met his intense dark green gaze.

“Please…” she murmured.

* * *

Lighting up his second cigarette from the tip of his first, Strike could still picture her face. She’d looked determined and vulnerable and sexy all at the same time, and she’d pulled him closer and scratched her nails gently down his spine and it had been utterly hopeless. Even as his brain screamed no, his left arm was around her waist pulling her even closer and his lips were on hers.

She’d tasted of tea and sweetness and something else that he couldn’t define but vaguely remembered from a long, long time ago when life and relationships had been a lot less complicated.

His thoughts meandered to Elin and he felt a brief wave of guilt wash over him. Their relationship wasn’t serious, as such, but there was an unspoken assumption of exclusivity, and Strike had never in his entire life cheated on anyone. He supposed it made him no better than Matthew, and he kicked angrily at nearby pebble, skimming it across the car park and narrowly missing an old, but clearly well-cared for Audi.

He would have to end it with Elin when he returned to London. There was no future in it anyway, and his hopes that it would distract him from other burgeoning feelings he’d been trying for some time not to engage with, were clearly futile.

He didn’t anticipate Robin wanting anything more than the night that they had shared. He was certain that in the cold light of day she would realise it had been a mistake. A beautiful disaster that they would have to move on from for the sake of their business, and possibly her relationship with Matthew.

Strike had suspected from the outset that their breakup may not be as permanent as Robin thought, and despite last night’s revelations, his opinion hadn’t changed. He dared not hope for any other outcome.

* * *

Back in her own room, Robin hastily stripped off the previous days clothes whilst she waited for the shower to heat up and inspected her reflection in the mirror. She knew it was ridiculous to imagine she would look as different on the outside as she felt inside, but she couldn’t help it. Somewhat reluctantly she stepped under the steaming spray and began the process of washing away the traces of the previous night, the unmistakable scent of Cormoran and sex.

She smiled at the realisation that it was a shower that had started it all. She was fairly certain that she’d have been able to keep her feelings under control had he not answered the door damp and half naked. Despite the temperature of the water she shivered at the recollection of how his darkly haired chest had felt against her skin, a welcome and exciting contrast to Matthew’s smooth torso.

She’d never been a fan of facial hair prior to meeting Strike either, but she couldn’t imagine him without, and now she aware of exactly how it felt brushing lightly against various parts of her body she was pretty sure she’d never look at a beard in quite the same way again.

Robin rinsed her hair, wishing she could stay in the shower and relive every minute of the previous night. She imagined Strike knocking on her door, walking in and joining her. Was that even possible? Would she ever find out?

Her stomach flipped as she pictured his face when he’d handed her the mug of tea earlier. He’d given no hint as to where, if anywhere, this new development between them might lead. She hadn’t given the future any thought the previous night either. Not when she’d knocked on his door, or when she’d told him what she wanted. Not when she’d tugged his t-shirt over his head, or divested him of his boxers and definitely not when she slid her tongue over his scarred upper lip and into his mouth, or when she’d had her hands on his well-muscled arse as he moved inside her.

Less than twelve hours ago she’d had no idea what she wanted beyond that night. Now she was in absolutely no doubt.

* * *

Strike was already seated in the breakfast room when Robin arrived. He waved as she entered and she acknowledged him with a smile and went to help herself to coffee.

He watched as she reached up to a shelf above the drinks machine for a mug and her dusky pink sweater rose up, revealing a sliver of pale midriff. His breath caught in his throat as a flashback of the previous night hit him, when seated on the bed he’d pulled her to stand between his thighs and slowly unbuttoned her white shirt from the hem upwards. He closed his eyes momentarily and could almost feel her fingers in his hair and the smooth, warm curve of her stomach beneath his lips.

“Penny for them?” she sounded more Yorkshire than ever as she slid into the seat opposite.

_Get a grip._

“Good coffee,” he replied, “I’ve ordered your usual, poached eggs on toast and bacon, is that okay?”

“Sounds perfect,” she hesitated. It just wasn’t the right time or place. “Do you want to head off straight after breakfast?”

“Yeah, might as well crack on.”

“Okay.”  
  


* * *  
  


It took five hours to reach Corby, another two to get back to London, and still the time and opportunity hadn’t arisen. Strike had resolved, whilst trying his best to numb his feelings with nicotine that morning, that allowing Robin to take the lead regarding what happened next was the safest option.

Judging from her expression when she’d woken in his room that morning, he’d expected some awkwardness, but by the time she’d sat down to breakfast she was back to friendly, professional Robin.

Previous girlfriends had always hated the way Strike managed to compartmentalise his feelings, but now he found himself struggling to do any such thing. It was alright when they were talking about the case, but every so often there would be a pause in the conversation just long enough for him to notice how her hands gripped the battered steering wheel so confidently, or see her thighs, clad in tight blue denim, flex as they worked the stiff pedals of the old Land Rover.

And then there was the toffees.

“Give us one then…” she’d said, and if the double entendre hadn’t been enough on it’s own to set his libido surging, the feeling of her hot breath on his fingertips as he popped the sweet into her mouth had certainly done the trick. Never in his life had Strike been so glad of his enormous coat and the coverage it offered.

Eventually, he bit the bullet.

“Where are you gonna stay?”

“Er…at the flat, at least for tonight. Matthew’s away so…”

And there it was, confirmation of the thought that had been in his mind all along. Nine years of relationship didn’t end overnight. Back in the home she shared with him, the bed she shared with him, would she stick to her resolve? She’d never suggested there would be any more on the cards that the night they’d just shared anyway, whether she left him or not.

Looking out of the windows at the passing countryside, Strike tucked the uncomfortable feelings that had begun to stir over the table at the Tottenham two nights previously back inside his careworn heart and turned his thoughts back to psychopaths and severed limbs.

* * *

That night Robin lay on her side of the bed she usually shared with Matthew. She’d ripped the bedding off and changed it before she’d even taken her boots off, not wanting to sleep with any vestiges of him. Instead she slept fitfully, images of Strike filling her dreams, and waking frequently to wonder how he had carried on all day as if nothing had happened between them.

She knew he would never pressure her to make a decision and hoped he was just giving her breathing space, but what if he just saw their night together as a one off?  
Robin felt her heart beat fluttering at the base of her throat as she recalled Strike’s tenderness and patience of the previous night, how he’d gently but determinedly coaxed her to orgasm first with his fingers, then his mouth before finally making love to her, resulting in a third, shattering climax. It certainly hadn’t felt like just sex, but what did she know? There had only been Matthew and she couldn’t remember when, or even if she had ever experienced anything similar with him.

More restless than ever, Robin flipped the pillow onto the cold side and willed herself to sleep.

* * *

Strike saw little of his partner over the following two days. A brief meeting in the office to discuss the possible whereabouts of both Brockbank and Laing resulted in them heading out solo, Robin to Elephant and Castle to try and locate Laing’s block of flats, whilst Strike visited a string of seedy strip clubs in the hope of tracking down Brockbank.  
Ever the pragmatist about the possibility of finding the latter, much less being able to bring him to account for his actions, the look on Robin’s face when she’d revealed he was living with a little girl had penetrated Strike’s steely resolve to avoid getting too personally invested in the case.

This weakness, as he saw it, was only exacerbated by his burgeoning feelings for Robin, and the knowledge of what she’d been through at the hands of Oliver Trewin, and Matthew’s betrayal. Thoughts of both men kept popping uninvited into his head, and he fought a constant battle not to engage with them. He’d been worried about her beforehand, now he was aware of a constant thrum of anxiety running through his veins. When she’d called him at dusk, he’d insisted she head home before it got any darker, but she’d argued that she was meeting her mum around the corner from the office and would be fine. He’d stayed downstairs working in the vague hope that she might pop in, but after two days traipsing around London, he’d fallen asleep at his desk, and it was there that Robin found him, later that evening.

He awoke to sensation of his heavy overcoat being draped over his slumbering body, and opened his eyes sleepily to see her cast in a warm glow from the street lights filtering through the blinds. She smiled softly.

“Oh, hello.”

“What’re you doing here?”

“I just popped in for some files…look I’ve been given some money. It’s only £500 but if we don’t pay the bills we won’t be able to carry on working here…”

“I’m not exactly a safe bet,” he quipped back. “You’d be better off putting your money on a horse.”

“I’m better off here,” she said softly, “Let me do this…for us.”

Us…is that what we are now?

A thought suddenly dawned in him.

“Shit! I was supposed to be seeing Elin…two hours ago.”

“Oh…well, I’d better be off anyway.”

Still not quite awake, and in the dim light, Strike didn’t register the look of hurt on Robin’s face.

“Take a cab. I don’t like you being out on your own after dark.”

She watched him head out of the office and up to his attic flat, picked up the envelope her mother had given her, and left.

* * *

Matthew was waiting for her when she arrived home. He was freshly showered and shaved and smartly dressed, although he looked pale and as though he hadn’t slept for days, dark circles beneath his familiar hazel eyes. The flat was immaculate, flowers on the tiny dining table, candles scattered over every available surface, and the smell of something delicious in the air.

“I made that Nigel Slater salmon thing you like,” he said nervously.

“I ate with mum,” she replied, shortly, pouring herself a glass of wine and dropping into a dining chair.

Matthew moved closer, launching into a grovelling apology for his ‘unforgiveable mistake’ with Sarah Shadlock, telling Robin she was the love of his life…

“…and I want to marry you, more than anything that’s what I want, but that’s for you to decide so…”

He reached into his pocket and placed her engagement ring on the table in front of her, where it glittered in the candlelight.

“…I’m asking you again, and if you say no, I’ll accept it and I’ll leave the flat in the morning.”

A tear rolled down Robin’s face, as she thought about Strike’s missed date with Elin, and steeled herself to reply.

* * *

Ten miles away in Soho, Strike lay awake. He kept remembering his mum’s words as she watched yet another wannabe rockstar boyfriend from the wings, a ten-year-old Strike in tow as there was no one to leave him with in London whilst Lucy was safely tucked up in bed at St Mawes.

_“I love him darlin’, one day you’ll feel like that about somebody.”_

The memory had been haunting him for days now, and at first he’d put it down to the looming spectre of Whittaker, but after seeing Robin that evening, he knew what it really meant.

He’d promised himself after Charlotte that he’d only say those words to another woman if he was going to make a life with her, and until a few days ago, he’d thought he would never say them again. But the removal of Robin’s engagement ring had ripped open the floodgates that he had kept so firmly closed on his feelings for the last eighteen months, and the night in Barrow had been like a tsunami washing through them. Deep down he’d known since the day he’d seen her in the green dress in Vashti that he was either the luckiest man in the world, or royally screwed. He still wasn’t entirely sure which it was to be.

Giving up any hope of sleep, Strike made his way precariously to the armchair in his tiny sitting room by way of the fridge, where he sat drinking beer, trying to make sense of the situation he found himself in, and what he needed to do about it.

* * *

By the time he got off the tube at Ealing Broadway the following morning, he’d lost his nerve. He knew Matthew had been due back the previous day and had no idea what that could mean for his and Robin’s future professionally, let alone personally. He was well aware of how much Matthew hated her working with him, and now she’d confirmed at least one major reason why he had no doubt he would try again to convince her to leave. Still, he reminded himself, he’d been meaning to check out Robin’s home security arrangements so at least he could do that.

He slipped in through the unsecured back gate, keeping his eye trained on her slim figure as she made tea with her back to both him and the door. He’d barely turned the handle when she rounded on him, clutching a sizeable kitchen knife.

“Went for the knife…very good. I was just checking your locks. I can see the one on your back gate is not, well…it’s not adequate.”

Her arms were folded across her chest as she regarded him with a combination of relief and mild amusement. His eyes dropped to her left hand…it was still ring-free, and a fleeting glance around the room revealed two large suitcases by the door into the hallway. Strike looked at them, then at Robin, his eyes questioning.

“Tea?” she asked.

He nodded and sat at the table, where she joined him with two mugs.

“He apologised profusely last night,” she admitted, “…and he proposed – again.”

Strike’s heart was galloping in his chest.

“What did you tell him?”

“The truth. That as per his text the other day, it was definitely over between us…because I’d slept with you.”

Her voice was almost calm, but Strike was so busy trying to process her statement that he didn’t notice the slight tremor as she spoke.

“You told him…about us?” he couldn’t help the smile creeping across his lips. If she’d told Matthew, then surely she must want more from him than just a one-night rebound fling?

She nodded, then took a sip of her tea and placed her cup deliberately on the table. This time he could see she was shaking.

“When you say ‘us’,” her Yorkshire accent rang through the word and Strike felt his heart swell with affection, “Is that really what you want? What about Elin…you were seeing her last night?” She looked sceptical and he reached over and took her hand.

“I was due to be seeing her so I could call things off. A decision I was on the verge of making even before our trip to Barrow, although the…ahem…events of that night definitely  
confirmed my decision for me. Anyway, I called to apologise for not showing up and she, quite rightly, gave me a bollocking and it is now all over by mutual agreement.”

She breathed a small sigh of relief as, still holding her hand he raised it to his lips, as he’d one when they’d become business partners, only this time even that simple action sent a bolt of desire through her. He nodded toward the suitcases.

“So when’s he coming to pick his stuff up?”

She blushed slightly and bit her lip.

“Er…he’s not. I can’t afford the rent here on my own,” she looked up at Strike beseechingly. “I was hoping…obviously not long-term but maybe for a week or so…if I could…”

He looked at her disbelievingly, but unexpectedly thrilled at this turn of events.

“You’re coming home with me?”

“If you don’t mind…just for a bit.”

“Of course I don’t bloody mind,” his voice softened and he raised a hand to gently cup her cheek, his fingers tangling in her hair, “I love you Robin. I’ve loved you for a long time and I never thought I’d get the chance to tell you.”

“Well, I’m very glad you have,” she whispered back. “Now how about you take me back to Denmark Street and we catch some bad guys?”

He grinned and shook his head.

“Roger that!” he winked.


End file.
